


Men in Tights

by moonflowers



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 01:42:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1710386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonflowers/pseuds/moonflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jimmy could claim he was just having an off day, or that the girl he was partnering was below standard, but he’d be lying. The other chorus members were miles ahead of him in terms of experience. It didn’t help that Thomas Barrow – the Thomas Barrow – was watching him like a hawk. Every incomplete turn, every incorrect movement, he clocked it. Most off-putting of all was the inescapable fact that Jimmy used to have a poster of the man on his bedroom wall. He’d had other dancers taped up over his wallpaper too, but… well, they weren’t currently wincing at Jimmy’s poorly executed lifts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Men in Tights

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted this on Tumblr in 500(ish) word parts, so here's the thing in it's entirety, with the last couple parts shoved on the end. Hopefully it all fits together as one alright. Thanks for all the lovely feedback, I may have ditched this ages ago if not for that, so thanks <3  
> The ballet they're dancing is Coppelia. This doesn't affect the plot, but there are a few references to it, just in case you're wondering what I'm chatting about.

Jimmy shrugged his bag higher up on his shoulder and checked the time on his phone. Late. Bugger. He was careful to keep his face neutral though – rule one, never let them see you’re nervous. It was almost primal; once they sensed your fear, that was the end of you. And this was the biggest show he’d landed a part in so far, so his nerves were all over the place. The ballet industry was ruthless, and he’d so far struggled by with a mix of endless practice, a smile that made his jaw ache, and a good deal of luck.  
He swallowed and snapped the lid back onto his vile energy drink with a grimace. Normally he would’ve preferred water, but he’d been up half the night with nightmare visions of his own failure, and he’d need all the help he could get. Making his way down the corridor to the dressing rooms, a flash of movement through an open door caught his eye. Ignoring the small issue of privacy, he pushed the door open a little more. At the far end of the small dance studio, a man was warming up at the bar. There was nothing remarkable about this in itself, but it was the very way the man moved that affected Jimmy so. Wrought into the point of his toe, the tension in his thigh, the curve of his arm, and the careful angle of the mysterious dancer’s neck was the very reason Jimmy had taken up dancing in the first place. He couldn’t name it exactly; it was more of a visual sensation. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and the deliberate elegance and masculine poise of the man across the room said more on the matter than Jimmy ever could. But then the dancer glanced up, dark hair falling over sharp eyes that were looking right at Jimmy.  
Oh fuck.  
 _Him._

~

Rehearsal was not going well. Jimmy could claim he was just having an off day, or that the girl he was partnering was below standard, but he’d be lying. The other chorus members were miles ahead of him in terms of experience. It didn’t help that Thomas Barrow – _the_ Thomas Barrow – was watching him like a hawk. Every incomplete turn, every incorrect movement, he clocked it. Most off-putting of all was the inescapable fact that Jimmy used to have a poster of the man on his bedroom wall. He’d had other dancers taped up over his wallpaper too, but… well, they weren’t currently wincing at Jimmy’s poorly executed lifts (he’d always danced better alone.) He’d idolised the man; God, he had a 2002 production of Swan Lake (the first time Mr Barrow had danced a lead role, incidentally) on VHS. His mum had taped it for him off the telly. Unlike the other boys his age, Jimmy hadn’t touched himself to images of sequin-covered popstars, or page three girls. He’d thought of the man dancing the part of the evil sorcerer, eyes darkened with make-up, pale skin and slicked hair, costume so tight it was almost indecent, muscled thighs and toned arse and fabric that left none of this to the imagination. 

A much-needed break was called, and Jimmy was dragged from the lewd fantasies of his teenage self and back to the studio. The chorus members fell into absent chatter, three blokes behind Jimmy listing the virtues of Mary Crawley, the woman dancing the lead. Jimmy rolled his eyes and snuck a glance at Mr Barrow and Ms Crawley, deep in discussion. They were both beautiful, in a dark and severe way; a Rothbart and a Black Swan if there ever was. Jimmy shook his head and bent to grab a drink from his bag. 

“Excuse me,” a voice came from behind him. Jimmy turned, and oh _fuck_ it was him. 

“Yes?” his voice came out high and thin, and he mentally slapped himself. 

“I wondered if I might have a word, Mr…?”

“Kent. Jimmy Kent.” Should he offer a handshake, or…?

“Right,” said Mr Barrow dismissively, “I’d like you to stay a little longer after rehearsal, if you could. Your positioning for the lifts is off, and I think you’d benefit from a little more instruction before the show progresses any further.”

“Err…” What? Had Jimmy’s idol essentially just told him he was a bit crap? Irritation flared and he felt his face go hot as he squared up to the other man. “Actually, I –“ 

“Wonderful,” Mr Barrow cut across smoothly, giving Jimmy a bland smile, “I’ll see you at five, James.” He sauntered off back to Ms Crawley, leaving Jimmy seething and nursing his pride, not sure if he was longing for or dreading five o’clock.

~

“Right. James…”

“Jimmy.”

“Pardon?”

“I prefer Jimmy.” Should he call him ‘sir?’ He couldn’t bloody well call him ‘Thomas.’ He felt fifteen again; plagued by prophetic nightmares of failed performances, except now the sceptical face of Thomas Barrow wasn’t a product of his subconscious. 

“Alright… Jimmy. Your performance today wasn’t up to scratch. It must be perfect.”

Jimmy flushed like an errant child, desperate to excuse his shoddy performance, “I dance better alone.”

Barrow looked at him, unimpressed. “Well, we can’t have that,” he said, all business. “Come here.”

“I – what?”

“I won’t have the entire performance condemned because a bloody chorus boy can’t lift properly.”

Scowling, Jimmy assumed position next to Mr Barrow. Oh God he could _smell_ him; coffee and cigarettes, a lingering trace of washing powder that didn’t quite cover the sweat of a man who’d been dancing all day. The scent of his teenage dreams. 

“How can I practice lifts without a partner?” Jimmy blurted to distract himself, “I can hardly lift _you.”_

“No,” said Mr Barrow, impatient, “I’ll show you how it’s supposed to feel – give me your hand.”

“I – you’re not – “ Jimmy’s fingers twitched.

“I’m aware I’m not a woman, Mr Kent. Come on.”

“Fine,” he said sourly as he took Mr Barrow’s hand, and they shifted to face the mirror.

“It’s fairly basic, you shouldn’t have much of a problem,” he smirked, actually _smirked,_ “but then if you didn’t, we wouldn’t be here, would we.” Jimmy wished desperately to look away from his own red face in the mirror, but the only other place to look was at Mr Barrow, and that really wasn’t an option. “Put one hand around my back… that’s right… on my waist. It’ll be lower when you’re dancing with – ?”

“…Ivy?” It was hard to recall any other soul in the universe when Jimmy’s hand was clasped around the waist of the man he used to think about while he touched himself. 

“ –Ivy, because of height differences. The other goes on this side... That’s too high, move down… don’t splay your fingers, that’s where you’re going wrong.”

“Okay,” Jimmy choked, screaming internally as Mr Barrow shifted under his hands.

“Perfect. Obviously you can’t lift me,” he said briskly, “or not correctly anyway, so that’s all the help I can give. The rest is up to you, so don’t balls it up. Take a moment to feel the positioning of your hands; muscle memory will help, if nerves set in.”

Jimmy began to retort that he never suffered from nerves, but considering his current state, it’d be somewhat hypocritical. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good.” Mr Barrow fell silent. 

Jimmy could feel the warmth of his skin through his clothes, his fingertips tingled with it. If he concentrated, he felt the rise and fall of Mr Barrow’s body as he breathed. He fought the urge to grip tighter and crush their lips together, slide his hands over that beautiful, undeniably masculine body, as he used to imagine in the dead of night. His eyes slid to Mr Barrow’s reflection, only to see the other man watching him, and looking the least composed Jimmy had ever seen. Their eyes met in the mirror, and Mr Barrow stepped neatly away.

Jimmy made his way home that evening, fingers twitching with the memory of Mr Barrow, realising there was no way this could all end well.

~

“Oh Jimmy, you have such lovely hair,” Ivy cooed, reaching up to gently tug a lock of it that had fallen over his forehead. 

“Err, thanks.” Alright, they were dance partners, proximity was necessary, but boundaries, woman. 

“I wish I had hair like yours,” Daisy said mournfully, tucking a mousey strand behind her ear. 

Of course you do, Jimmy thought, half smug and half irritable. He happened to glance across the studio then, to see Mr Barrow stonily watching him, and he suddenly felt incredibly _silly,_ no better than the twittering girls currently surrounding him. He recalled the moment they’d hurriedly pulled back from each other a few nights ago, and quickly looked away.

“No you don’t,” said Ms Crawley imperiously, looking up from her phone, “wavy hair is a nightmare to keep tidy on stage. Although,” she added wryly, “I have rather perfected it.”

Jimmy was so busy looking carefully aloof and uninterested for Mr Barrow’s benefit, that he almost missed it when said man slipped out of the fire escape. Since he definitely didn’t want to endure the ladies listing various hair sprays and their merits, Jimmy followed. That was the reason he gave himself, anyway. He pushed the door open in time to see Mr Barrow suck on a cigarette, cheeks hollowed and features somehow both smooth and angular, like he were bloody carved from marble. 

“Mornin’.” Not his best opening line, but he was too busy trying not to stare at the dancer’s mouth, and his long fingers balancing the cigarette, to come up with something better. 

“Hello,” Barrow replied with a sly smile, “finished charming the ladies, have you?” 

Jimmy stuttered and came over all hot and bothered again. It was bizarre – he couldn’t usually bring himself to care about anything enough to bring on actual embarrassment, so how on earth could this man he’d met a week or two ago manage it so damned easily? Probably something to do with the amount of times Jimmy had imagined touching his bum prior to their actual meeting. “For now.” 

Thomas huffed, and held the cigarette towards him. “Do you smoke?”

He didn’t, unless he was desperately drunk, but… “Thanks,” he took a shallow drag, trying to make it look like something he did every day. 

There was something about the other man that made Jimmy want to impress him. It was like being in school, trying to earn the respect of the boys in the year above. He handed Thomas the cigarette back, almost flinching away when their fingers inevitably touched. His own reflex made him angry – what was he so afraid of? If Jimmy wanted something, he endeavoured to get it; that was just how he worked. But now, stumbling across something he’d wanted for so long, he couldn’t bring himself to take it. He never thought he’d get within touching distance of the man, never mind anything more. If he messed it up now… The entire situation was unreal. His half-understood fear was suddenly unbearable, and he whipped back inside, leaving a bewildered Thomas Barrow frowning at his flightiness.

~

It was Mr Barrow’s fault. If Jimmy hadn’t been so aware of those eyes cataloguing every step he made, perhaps he could’ve relaxed and got on with it. As it was, the constant observation made him stumble all the more. He’d just begun his fifth run through of the piece, sweaty and disgruntled, when he slipped and jarred his wrist trying to break his fall. 

“Ahh, bollocks,” he winced, tentatively flexing his fingers.

He heard Mr Barrow tut before stalking over to examine the damage. He bent down next to Jimmy, foreheads almost touching, and softly felt around his wrist. “Does this hurt?”

“I –” the majority of Jimmy’s attention was stolen by the downward tilt of Barrow’s chin, the gap between his shirt and skin when he leant forward, exposing an unexpected hint of chest hair. “Yes… but – not too badly.”

“Hmm. It’s nothing serious, just be more careful, alright?”

“What?” 

Mr Barrow sighed and stood up. “You weren’t concentrating. You over-stepped and landed wrong. If you’d been paying more attention – “

“Wait one bloody minute,” Jimmy stood, fuming, his frustration from the past week finally bubbling up and spilling out of his mouth, “don’t go blaming this on me. It throws me off, when you’re looking at me like that.”

Barrow blinked at him, incredulous. “I’m trying to get your dancing up to scratch you twit, of course I’m looking at you.”

Jimmy glared, not ready to back down. “It’s not just when I’m dancing and you know it. You do it all the time, and honestly, it’s disturbing.” He didn’t mention that it might be more disturbing if he stopped.

“That’s right Jimmy, it’s all about _you,”_ Mr Barrow spat, and Jimmy would have felt elated at the use of his preferred name, if he weren’t so pissed off, “it can’t for one minute be that you’re the one at fault, oh no. You’re vain and spoilt, and I’m not going to stand here and let you wing your way through your career by fluttering your eyelashes at chorus girls.”

Jimmy was so enraged, for a moment he did nothing but stare. He groped desperately for something vicious to say, determined to cause hurt in return. “You’re just _jealous,_ Thomas Barrow. Jealous and bitter, because you’re not getting any younger. One day you’ll be too old and stiff to dance anymore. It’ll be blokes like me in the spotlight and you just can’t bloody face it.”

“You think so?” Mr Barrow laughed humourlessly, “let me tell you something Jimmy Kent; this industry is fucking _ruthless,_ and you’d better pull your head out of your arse and shape up, or you’ll never get anywhere.”

Jimmy didn’t register what he was doing, he was so livid. He knew he wasn’t the best dancer, but it stung to have it spelled out by a man he idolised. More so when he’d been half in love with him before they’d even met. But he was standing inches away, roaring to Jimmy about how second-rate he was, and his face was red and eyes bright with anger or desire or _something,_ his hair falling in his eyes and smelling faintly of the cigarette Jimmy knew he’d smoked half an hour ago, and he had to kiss him, because otherwise, what was the point of it all?

~

Two weeks remained until opening night, though Jimmy seriously doubted he’d make it that far. Every muscle ached and his head was a mess. Biting at the skin around his thumbnail, he stood in the wings, watching Mr Barrow practice his solo and trying to make it look like he wasn’t. 

_The male lead dances below a balcony, blowing a kiss to the pretty girl above him. Little does he know she’s but a doll, and cannot return the sentiment._ The storyline of this ballet was all hurt feelings and one misunderstanding after another. Jimmy found he could relate.

He remained half-hidden to the side as the scene ended, Ms Crawley flitting to centre stage as Mr Barrow drew closer to where Jimmy watched. He made to walk past with nothing but hesitant nod, but Jimmy wasn’t having that. They’d barely exchanged a word since Jimmy had given in to it all and let himself kiss Mr Barrow in their last, somewhat tense, rehearsal. Jimmy was still a little pissed off with him, truth be told, and the things he’d said. But one thing was clear – as clear as it had been the very day his teenaged self had realised he appreciated the dancer for more than his skill alone – he wanted Thomas Barrow. 

Mr Barrow said nothing, but glanced at where Jimmy had grabbed his arm, and raised an eyebrow (seriously, he _must_ pluck a little, they were too perfect to be natural.) Before Jimmy could worry too much about what would happen _after_ , he thought about the _now,_ and the past years he’d spent longing to be able to reach out and touch the very man who was now standing before him. He’d be an idiot to pass up the chance.

Jimmy didn’t want this kiss to be like the spontaneous one in the studio a few days back. He wanted Thomas Barrow to know his feelings weren’t based on a whim; some passing fancy. His mouth was closed, but he pressed his lips to Mr Barrow’s, hoping to convey his years of longing into the gesture (because fucked if he’d ever admit it out loud) hoping the dancer would somehow telepathically know how significant all this was for him. He kept one hand bunched up in the stage curtain behind him to anchor himself, the other still gripping Mr Barrow’s arm, as though afraid he’d vanish or run away. Mr Barrow opened his mouth to reciprocate, sliding his tongue along Jimmy’s bottom lip, a hand stroking down his side and coming to rest on his hip. Jimmy’s breath hitched, his body twitching minutely at the touch. The entire thing was fucking ridiculous; they barely knew each other. But that didn’t make the feeling of his body against Jimmy’s any less fantastic.

There was an agitated shout from somewhere within the labyrinthine depths of backstage, as a crewmember shouted for Mr Barrow to be ready for the next scene. He gently let Jimmy go with a soft smile (an unfair contrast to the turmoil Jimmy felt in his own head) and turned away, walking quickly so he didn’t miss his cue.

~

The dress rehearsal was due to begin in twenty five minutes. Jimmy had spent the previous forty in the stuffy dressing room he shared with a few of the other blokes in the chorus, a bunch of utter twats he’d once heard Mr Barrow refer to as ‘Ms Crawley’s harem.’ He couldn’t have said whether it was meant as a joke or not, and the amused smirk the lady herself had sent his way in return did nothing to confirm nor deny it. Either way, Jimmy was bored with their boasting and bragging and betting on who would fuck up their performance on opening night (Jimmy currently had the best odds) and left on the pretence of going to the loo. Instead, he found himself standing outside Mr Barrow’s dressing room door. Isobel, the wardrobe mistress, would have a fit if she found out he wasn’t in costume yet and was wandering around backstage still in joggers. It dimly registered that perhaps those who’d said Jimmy lacked the discipline required for the ballet industry had been onto something. He knocked; the hard, final sound dragging him from the dreamlike state he’d left his own dressing room in. There followed a brisk, clear call of ‘come in,’ and he pushed open the door to find Mr Barrow facing away from him, in front of a large mirror. The dressing room was alarmingly spartan, and a similar size to his own, but due to the absence of the slick idiots jockeying for Ms Crawley’s attention, it appeared a lot bigger. Damn. 

“Jimmy,” at the sound of his name, Jimmy stopped his scoping of the room and looked up to the mirror, where Mr Barrow’s reflection was regarding him with amusement and perhaps a touch of suspicion, “what can I do for you?”

 _What indeed,_ Jimmy thought, because the face looking back at him must have been one of the most enrapturing things he’d ever seen. Like himself, Mr Barrow had apparently just endured a considerable amount of time in the make-up chair, and the result was more than satisfactory to look at. His make-up was nowhere near as elaborate as it had been when he’d danced the lead in Jimmy’s treasured performance of Swan Lake, but just enough to enhance his features for the stage. His skin was unfairly flawless, his cheekbones could cut glass. There was the tiniest hint of liner around his eyes, and his lips stood out more sharply than usual. Which was bloody saying something. Jimmy foolishly felt compelled to touch his own hair and check his face in the mirror for imperfections, to ensure they were to a similar standard. Never before had anyone made him doubt himself like that.

“Jimmy?” Mr Barrow repeated impatiently.

“I was just wondering –“ what exactly it was Jimmy was wondering was temporarily erased from his mind, because at that moment he noticed Mr Barrow was already in costume, and the tight fit was causing Jimmy’s already distracted mind to short circuit. Those tights… Jimmy doubted there was another arse in the universe that could live up to his expectations after the one currently before his eyes. 

“Seriously Jimmy, what is it?” he said tightly. “We don’t have much time before… why aren’t you dressed yet?” he chose that moment to turn around, and Jimmy quickly raised his eyes to Mr Barrow’s face. He’d probably lose the ability to speak ever again if he let himself look any lower.

“I was just wondering, if you had a moment, if you could give me any last minute tips for the lifts. I… I’m still a bit wobbly, and I could do without the other blokes in the chorus taking the piss.” And his pride couldn’t take it if he let Mr Barrow down after all this…

The dancer snorted, “ignore them, they’re arrogant twats. And all desperate to get a hand up Mary’s skirt. Not that she’d ever let them, mind. She’s too clever for that.” Not for the first time, Jimmy wondered just how much Mr Barrow and Ms Crawley told each other. Had he told her about _him_ for example, and the desperate, risky kisses they’d been sharing behind the stage curtain? God, he hoped not. “Right,” Barrow said when Jimmy failed to say anything in return, “we don’t have long, so you’d best come here.” He held out a hand.

“I – what?” Jimmy’s traitor of a brain hadn’t quite managed to keep up with proceedings.

“You wanted a quick re-cap on the lifts…?” Mr Barrow was looking at him like he was a crayon short of the box. Jimmy would have been insulted if the imperious expression didn’t suit the man so much.

“Right,” Jimmy moved closer, where Mr Barrow gently manoeuvred him to stand facing the mirror, just as they’d done the first time Jimmy had stayed after rehearsal, with Mr Barrow’s hands on his waist, demonstrating the ideal position to lift from. 

“Remember to keep your hands nice and high,” his voice was soft in Jimmy’s ear, “you’ve a habit of placing them too low and overbalancing the poor sod you’re lifting.” Jimmy could feel the warmth of his hands through the thin cotton of his shirt, resting gently on his tense body. “And don’t forget to stay close,” he added, lips nearly touching Jimmy’s ear, “you try to lift with too much of a gap between you and your partner. It weakens the stance.” As if to emphasise his point, he moved fractionally closer, so his chest brushed Jimmy’s back. “And don’t splay your goddamn fingers so much.” Their eyes met in the reflection, and Jimmy’s self-restraint finally snapped.  
He turned his head, and caught Mr Barrow’s – Thomas’ – lips in a fierce kiss, feeling the deep rumble of a moan somewhere in the other man’s chest as he returned the sentiment. Jimmy opened his mouth slightly, inviting him to take things further, when Thomas abruptly broke away, though he didn’t let go of Jimmy’s waist. If anything, he held tighter. Confusion must have shown on Jimmy’s face, because Thomas looked at him apologetically (a look Jimmy had never seen him direct at anyone else, he was vaguely pleased to note.)

“The make-up,” he mumbled by way of explanation, “we’ll mess it up.” His breathing was heavy and his jaw tight. “And I don’t fancy explaining that to the make-up crew, do you?”

Jimmy most definitely did not. “No,” there was already a smudge of his own slightly darker face powder on Thomas’ chin, “I suppose not.” He was well aware that he was pouting like a petulant child, but it was so damn frustrating to be in such close proximity and not take what he wanted. What they both wanted.  
A wicked idea occurred to him then. They didn’t have to be kissing to enjoy themselves, after all. A quick glance at the clock over Thomas’ shoulder confirmed that there was only twenty minutes until they were due to go on stage, but, as that lanky ginger tosser who partnered Daisy in the choral scenes said every time he tucked into a Big Mac, you only live once. 

He peeled Thomas’ fingers away from his waist, and slowly turned himself around so they were facing each other, looking Thomas straight in the eye. The other man raised an eyebrow in question, but didn’t say anything, apparently trusting Jimmy with where this was heading. Jimmy barely trusted himself, come to think of it, but fucked if he was going to let it show on his face. He met Thomas’ gaze as brazenly as he could, and slowly lowered his hand, so the tips of his fingers rested on the front of Thomas’ costume. He couldn’t feel him, not really, through the layers of architectural support necessary for dancing on stage, but it was the principal of the thing. Thomas looked about ready to laugh, so Jimmy gave him the dirtiest look he could manage, and pressed his hand more firmly against him.

“You really think, after me saying no to bloody kissing you because it’ll ruin the make-up, that I’m going to let you get me out of this fortress of a costume when I’m due on stage in less than twenty minutes?”

“Then what do you – ?” 

In lieu of answering, Thomas pushed him backwards until Jimmy’s back met the painted concrete wall of the dressing room. Jimmy honestly couldn’t say if the action was irritating or arousing. But then, that about summed up their dealings with each other. The wall was pleasantly cold and grounding against his back, as every other inch of his body felt heavy and overly warm.  
Not breaking eye contact, Thomas ran his fingers down Jimmy’s chest, dipping his hand straight into his trousers. Thomas stroked him through his underwear, looking him dead in the eye as he touched him, as though daring Jimmy to try and keep a straight face. He just about succeeded for a minute or so, as Thomas stroked him to full hardness, though it was torture. But the battle was lost the moment Thomas pulled back the elastic of his underwear, and slid his hand down to take Jimmy’s cock. 

“Ahh, fuck,” Jimmy’s breath stuttered and he broke eye contact for a moment, briefly noting the rapidly dwindling time before they’d be missed written on the clock face on the opposite wall. 

“Eyes on me, Jimmy,” Thomas murmured, and Jimmy bit his lip, forcing his eyes back to Thomas’. 

_Oh God._ The entire scenario was achingly similar to the sort of thing Jimmy used to think about when he touched himself. Except it was a thousand times better, since now he actually gotten to know the man in question, and had more experience to go on rather than a young teenager’s vague assumptions of sex. Jimmy was well aware that anyone walking past the door would be able to hear any noise he should make (he’d been told by his few past lovers that he swore like a sailor when in the throes of passion) and he made every effort he could to restrain himself. But it wasn’t bloody easy when Thomas’ clever fingers were wrapped maddeningly gently around his cock, eyes boring into his own as though he was going to devour him. Not an idea Jimmy would be wholly opposed to, come to think of it. He came embarrassingly soon; though Thomas didn’t seem to mind, if the fascination on his face was he watched Jimmy come undone was anything to go by.

“You’d best go get changed,” Thomas said into the silence of the dressing room, as Jimmy’s breathing evened out. He kissed him once, lightly, on the cheek. “And don’t fuck up the lifts.”

~

On opening night, Jimmy did not visit Thomas before the show. He’d gotten a bollocking from make-up over his smudged face in the dress rehearsal, and needless to say his performance suffered from having to dance ten minutes post orgasm. He waited for the call in his own dressing room, earphones in and listening to David Bowie, volume high to block out the idiots who shared the room. The music simultaneously soothed him and pumped him up for performance. He stared at the album art on the screen of his phone – pale face and darkened eyes – and thought of Thomas.

_Shadow love was quick and clean, life’s a well-thumbed machine,_  
I saw you watching from the stairs, you’re everyone that ever cared,  
Oh lordy, oh lordy, you know I need some loving.  
Move me, touch me. 

The show turned out far better than Jimmy’d been expecting; he’d fumbled a lift, but Ivy had managed to balance them out. He’d known he wouldn’t dance his best until he was in front of a real audience. It was how he worked – stumble his way through rehearsals, then allow flair and instinct to take over on the night. Not the best technique from a professional stance, but he pulled it off.  
After he’d been hugged by an ecstatic Ivy, and handed twenty quid by one of Ms Crawley’s harem as a result of the wager that he’d drop his partner, he headed down to the small party celebrating opening night.  
Guests were smiling woodenly at each other, grasping champagne flutes and pecking at canapés. Some were dancing. Jimmy wanted to dance with Thomas; not the fumbling, tension-fuelled way they had in rehearsals, but like the couples were now – fluid and serene, carefully balanced. Natural. He shook it off as the man himself approached. When did he get so soppy? 

“Good evening, Mr Kent,” Thomas said smoothly, face wiped clean of stage make-up and dressed impeccably. 

“Mr Barrow.”

“So you didn’t fuck up the lifts then?”

“Nope,” said Jimmy, proudly flashing his twenty pound note, “despite my poor odds.”

“My my,” he said quietly, almost smiling, “aren’t we the star pupil.”

Jimmy was about to say something quite filthy in return, when Ms Crawley appeared, wearing a dress practically see-through, with a man Jimmy didn’t know on her arm. 

“Thomas,” she smiled, and kissed him on the cheek, “flawless as ever.”

“And you,” he replied, “not that I expected anything else.” 

“And James,” she didn’t kiss him, which he was thankful for, “I see Thomas’ hard work with you has paid off.” She smirked at them, eyes bright with suggestion you’d have to be an idiot to miss. “I don’t believe you’ve met Philip Crowborough,” she gestured to the man next to her, “a generous benefactor to our little company.” 

“Charmed,” said the man, though he sounded anything but, giving Jimmy’s hand a brief shake. 

“Thomas you know, of course.”

“Quite,” said Philip with a leer Jimmy hoped he’d imagined. 

“Delightful to see you again,” said Thomas dryly, equally insincere. 

“Actually, Thomas, there’s a matter I’m quite keen to discuss with you,” Philip slid a hand down Thomas’ arm to grip his elbow. Jimmy was liking the smug prick less every second. “If you’ll excuse us,” he brushed past Jimmy, his hold on Thomas’ elbow slipping to rest on the small of his back as he steered them through the crowd.  
There was some small pleasure to be had in the fact that Thomas looked just as pissed off about this development as Jimmy was.

~

After twenty minutes, Jimmy’s patience was shot. He didn’t like being ignored, even more so when it was by someone whose attention he craved. Clutching a drink that was mostly ice, he stood next to an ugly pot plant, and glared at the smug git currently draped over Thomas’ shoulder. And Thomas was letting him. Bastard. They hadn’t exactly discussed it, but Jimmy had assumed he and Thomas were sort of… you know. He’d already snapped rudely at Ivy and Alfred when they’d asked if he was alright. So when that prick leant closer to whisper something, his lips brushing Thomas’ ear, Jimmy was halfway across the room in an outraged blur before he’d even thought about it. 

“I wonder if I could have a word with you, _Mr Barrow,”_ he said through a tight smile, leaving no room for argument as he marched stiffly from the room. Thomas followed, leaving an amused looking Philip alone at the buffet.

“Alright then,” Thomas said, once they were in the chilly concrete corridor, “what’s got your knickers in a twist?”

Jimmy snorted, “you know.”

“Jimmy,” Thomas looked thoroughly exasperated, “I really don’t.”

“Oh give over,” Jimmy crossed his arms, annoyingly aware of the few inches taller than him Thomas was, “he practically had his hand down your pants.”

“I think I’d remember something like that,” Thomas raised a dubious eyebrow, “sounds lovely though. Who exactly are we talking about, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Philip Crowborough!” Jimmy said, beyond irritation and on his way to something else he wasn’t entirely sure of, “that greasy twat whose been dribbling in your ear all evening.”

“I – what? Jimmy, the bloody party only started half an hour ago.”

“Not the point!”

“Fine,” his mouth twitched and Jimmy’s eyes fixed on his lips, “what exactly is the point?”

“That… _man,_ was all over you, and you let him.”

“Jimmy,” Thomas’ mouth was grim, and there was a flash of anger in his eyes that should not have made Jimmy’s stomach jolt, “we were talking. We’ve known each other for years. Besides, I’ve been down that road,” he said darkly, “and I’ve no wish to go there again. Why are you being so–“ 

He was cut off as Jimmy grabbed his shoulders and shoved him against the cold concrete, bypassing his mouth completely and heading straight for the inviting skin of his neck, smelling of sweat and make-up and deodorant in an attempt to cover the former. He ran his tongue along Thomas’ jaw, nipping and kissing at his neck, pulling him closer still to suck a bruise into the soft skin. _Let the make-up girls have fun covering that,_ Jimmy thought as he lapped the darkened skin with his tongue. _Everyone will know you belong to somebody._

“Jimmy…” he gasped softly as Jimmy began to calm, “are you jealous?”

“No,” he blurted into Thomas’ shoulder. But even as he said it, it occurred to him that was exactly the case. 

Oh fuck. Just when he thought the saga of his feelings for Thomas Barrow couldn’t get any more complicated. Instead of the (probably justified) annoyance Jimmy was expecting as he drew away, Thomas smiled, and looked a little sheepish. Jimmy wasn’t sure if it made him look gorgeous or utterly ridiculous. Either way, he liked it.

“I...” Thomas swallowed and his eyes flicked briefly to the ground, “I never had someone be jealous over me before.”

“Oh.” Jimmy felt similarly out of place – he was usually the one causing jealousy, rather than feeling it himself. 

“It’s sort of nice, actually,” he mumbled.

“It is?”

“Mhmm,” Thomas cleared his throat, “do you – do you want to go back in?”

“Alright,” Jimmy agreed, tugging Thomas’ shirt collar in a vain attempt to at least partially conceal the mark he’d left.

“I’ll get you a drink.”

Slightly dazed and feeling bizarrely like he was on a date, Jimmy took Thomas’ hand, and let himself be led back into the theatre’s dimly lit function room.

~

Jimmy stood in the wings, watching Thomas dance in the final performance of the season. The weeks had flown by – Jimmy could lift properly now and all – and he was starting to worry what he was going to do next. But his worries were vague and non-descript, because Thomas had promised they could ditch the after party early that evening, and go and get a drink elsewhere. Or go back to Thomas’ place, if he fancied it. 

The stark lighting of the scene caught every angle of Thomas’ face beautifully, deep shadows and bright lines, and utterly flawless. As he lifted Ms Crawley, his body stretched and held strong arcs in smooth flesh and muscle, every movement a reflection of passion and perfection.  
Jimmy was bloody lucky. Every boy fell in love with a poster on his wall, or a face on the TV screen at some point. A very select few came face to face with their idol, and even fewer again would ever have their love in return. It was soppy as fuck, but Jimmy couldn’t stop himself being incredulous that this beautiful, talented bastard was his. 

_Each year, at the time of the wheat harvest, the townspeople gather to hear the tale of the stalk of wheat. Legend says that when the blessed wheat is shaken, it’s rattle will indicate who shall be married before the year is out. On occasion, people will ignore the wheat’s prediction, or feign they cannot hear, because they are unsure of their own hearts. But it is no use. For when you hear the wheat’s rattle, you shall find love together, and your union will be blessed._


End file.
